


Sense or Season

by filenotch



Series: The Museum Heist Series [2]
Category: Hellblazer, Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman, ZELAZNY Roger - Works
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 21:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filenotch/pseuds/filenotch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Constantine is back in New England, called in to help with a theft at the MIT Museum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sense or Season

**Author's Note:**

> John Constantine is a character from DC comics. He has his own series "Hellblazer", but also appears in other series and shorts, including the excellent "The Books of Magic" He has no super-guy powers, but is well-versed in the occult.
> 
> The Marquis de Carabas is the creation of writer Neil Gaiman, and appeared first in the television series "Neverwhere." Mr. Gaiman novelized the series to good effect, and the story is soon to be a major motion picture ("...because," as Gaiman says, "nothing is ever a minor motion picture."). 
> 
> John is my own dubious creation, but he probably came from the Courts of Chaos out of Roger Zelazny's Amber series. John serves as my evil alter ego, and everyone should take their dark side out for a walk now and then.
> 
> Written in the mid 1990's.

****

Round 1

He hates this.

He pulls at his tie, runs his hand through blond hair cut a bit shorter than he likes, then reaches for a cigarette. He has difficulty lighting it in the staggered puffs of wind coming down the river. There is no shelter from it here near the middle of the low, flat bridge, and his trench coat is belted with the collar turned up. The setting and costume, fitting as they are for an occultist, feel like something out of a cliched story, something that would start out with the phrase, "It was a dark and stormy night." 

John Constantine is back in Boston, or more properly speaking, walking between Boston and Cambridge, the city across the Charles River. He was told to wait at the one hundred and eighty second Smoot of the Harvard Street bridge, a task which required the purchase of a guidebook at Logan Airport. The book told him not only where to find the bridge, but also that Smoot had been an undergraduate at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in the 50's, immortalized in the prank which used him as a measuring stick. 

For some reason the Harvard Street bridge is part of Massachusetts Avenue, and the Smoot markings are only laid down at the tens. By mark number one hundred he has figured out how many average Constantine strides equal one Smoot. He passes number one eighty to find "Half Way to Hell" conveniently painted next to the only non-decade Smoot line, just where one hundred eighty-two should be. This is why the spot was specified, Constantine is sure. The man he waits for has that sort of sense of humor. 

At least he thinks he knows who sent him the message to come to Boston once again. A plane ticket appeared in his flat two weeks ago, and three separate cab rides had taken him to the airport -- ticket miraculously in pocket -- when he was sure he'd said something distinctly unlike "Heathrow." Constantine is a pretty good magician, but anyone who can do that may be better, and that rankles. Scant comfort can be found in thinking the annoying little tosser behind this isn't properly a man at all, but some kind of chaos demon with a penchant for scavenger hunts. Whatever he is, he had better show up soon, or Constantine is off to find one of those bars mentioned in the guidebook.

The wind blows in fits and starts, and the water is warmer than the crisp autumn air, so that mist rises during the lulls. For a moment he can see only the dull red glow from the end of his cigarette. Then the beams of a car's headlights pierce an unnaturally thick patch of fog, and a figure in a long coat and wide hat is thrown into relief. Twin lights, the yellow red of flame, are where its eyes should be.

"Hello, John Constantine." The greeting is simple, but the tenor voice implies a tease. 

"There you are," Constantine says. The headlights move past, and his eyes readjust to resolve the figure and his broad-brimmed black leather hat. As he watches, the gleaming eyes turn flat and gray and amused. Constantine is unimpressed, and although he drops his gaze, it is only to look the new arrival up and down. He is bundled in a coat two sizes too big. "Nice trench coat. New?"

The other -- another John, sometimes called LeBlanc, sometimes White, sometimees Blonde -- holds up an arm in a lengthy sleeve. "You don't think black is a bit too much? I bought it in honor of those boys in Colorado." Then suddenly, with the slight change of voice he uses when quoting, "'Are you a Christian?'" 

Constantine recognizes the question. He is unsure whether John is simply indulging his habit of quotes or deliberately provoking, so he ignores it. This isn't what he came across the ocean for. Actually, he isn't sure why John brought him across the ocean, so he tries, "Nice work, that bit with the tickets and the taxis."

"You didn't ward that grotty little flat very well." Constantine snorts at the sound of British slang in an American accent, but John does not pause. "And misdirecting cab drivers isn't hard. It seems you got the point when you ended up at Heathrow after the, what, third time? Third time you hadn't said to go there."

Constantine chuckles and flicks his cigarette into the river. "No, it was the bit on the Tube after the second time that did the trick."

"Which bit?"

"All swirling capes with dreadlocks. The man who said he'd see me in Boston."

"Ah. Not my doing. That would be the Marquis." 

John leans out and looks over the river. Constantine leans next to him, taking in the differences between the skylines. On the Boston side high rises serve as backdrop for the brownstones that line the river, the lights of the flats visible through the trees. Upriver flashes a large neon gas station sign that only an American city would save as an historical landmark. Cambridge has none of the skyscrapers, just one tall building amid the domes and laboratories of MIT. Head- and taillights move in steady rhythms along riverside roadways and across the bridge, coming and going.

John isn't volunteering any more information. Constantine gives in, but he lights another cigarette before asking, "Who's the Marquis?"

"Our third. The Marquis de Carabas."

"Planning to kill me for entertainment if he doesn't show up, like you said you'd've done last spring?" Constantine asks. "Or do you have some sort of nasty surprise in store for this Marquis?"

John smiles distractedly, still gazing out over the river. "How'd you guess?"

*

"Bloody hell. Which is it?" 

"If I were going to kill you I'd have done it last time." John's eyes rise to Constantine's face flirtatiously. "But I'm going to try to kill the Marquis."

"Kill him by annoying him to death?" Constantine looks back out over the river, coolly contemplating throwing the small man over the thick iron rail. The fall to the water wouldn't be far enough to do real damage, though the splash alone might be satisfying. But he restrains himself and asks, "Why?"

"All part of the plan to get what we want."

"And what do we want? What's in this for me? And what d'you need me for?"

John's voice deepens. "'Who are you?'" He uses more of a rasp and adds, "'What do you want?'"

"Cut the Babylon 5 shite."

"I'm just kidding," John laughs, grabbing to rescue his hat from sudden puff. He settles it onto his head and tightens the chin strap, asking, "Weren't you happy with what you got from our last little foray?"

"Of course." Constantine has had much use from the ancient copy of Dante's Inferno that they pinched from the Gardner museum. The hand-written notes in the fly leaves filled in the missing pieces of two very old magical grimoires. "What have you got for me this time?"

"The Necronomicon." 

He is ready to laugh out loud, but something in John's face gives him pause. Still, he can't entirely hold back a chuckle as he says, "Which one? I can think of three that I already have and a few more I never bothered to pick up."

"Not the 'highly secret magical text now released in paperback,'" John says in his announcer's voice. "The Necronomicon. The Book of Dead Names, Kithab Al Azif, hand-written in Arabic by Abdul Alhazred, the Mad Arab himself."

"Yes, I know the mythology," Constantine snorts. "Pulp horror stories. You're saying it's real?" 

"'What is reality, Papa?'" John asks in tones full of innocence, then in an awful imitation of a slow and annoyed Cornish accent, "'Aich bloody pee bloody love bloody craft!'" 

"Yes, H. P. Lovecraft. It was also the name of a mediocre rock band in the sixties."

John laughs. "Did you know that MIT was the inspiration for Lovecraft's Miskatonic University?"

Constantine cannot help but adopt some of John's posturing, and nearly intones, "Next you'll be telling me that great Chthulhu the elder god is going to rise from the river."

John grins widely and glances into the water. "Don't tempt him."

With a snort and a roll of the eyes, Constantine tries to go back the subject. "What are you after?"

"What do you care?" John stares out from under the black hat, challenging Constantine with his eyes.

Constantine does not take the bait. "More to the point, what does this Marquis think you're after?"

"Safe place to dream," John answers, suddenly quiet.

"Why do I ever expect sense from you?" Constantine sighs and looks away, taking a deep drag of smoke and blowing it upward. He's in. He was in from the first minute the airline tickets appeared in his flat. Whatever happens, it will be interesting. "So tell me about this Marquis de Carabas. What do you need him for, and what does he want?"

"The Marquis knows his way around tunnels, and he wants me to owe him a favor."

"And that's it?"

"That's it."

"What next?"

"Right now I'm dangerously sober, and I intend to do something about it."

Constantine flicks his cigarette into the river and reaches in his pocket for the guidebook. "The Union Oyster House looked interesting."

"Tourist stuff," John snorts. "We're going to a goth club." He strides past Constantine toward the Cambridge side of the river, then calls back over his shoulder, "It's the annual Fetish Ball. Are you up for it?"

"Nothing I haven't seen before. Ever been inside the Hellfire Club in London?" Constantine matches John's pace, and the Smoot markings slide by under their feet in increasing number.

"The real one? If you've been there then this place will merely be funny. For the most part." John considers for a moment, then adds, "Or sad, with a few quite notable exceptions."

"Let's hear it for exceptions."

They cross the bridge and turn left along the bank. Constantine lights another cigarette. He doesn't try to engage the little shit in conversation, but there is only the animated neon of the gas station sign to hold his attention as they walk beside the river, dodged by cyclists and in-line skaters even this late in the evening. He has time to brood, to wonder what the hell he's in for this time. He's dealt with demons before, but demon John is more difficult to second guess than the usual Goetic creatures. 

He is startled when John breaks the silence. "So, what've you been up to?"

"Not much. Done a little reading recently."

"The Dante we stole from the Gardner Museum?" John asks.

"No," Constantine shakes his head. "More modern stuff. After meeting you last spring I picked up a couple of Chaos magic books. Liber Kaos was the latest one. You read it?"

"Yep. Funny, isn't it?"

"In places. It's the post-modern version of what would have been Satanism in the Seventies. 'Fiat Nox' must seem dark and spooky to the clueless."

"Fiat nada," John snorts with amused derision. "You don't think that has anything to do with me, do you?"

"When we first met you said you were a Chaos magician."

"And so I am, but you know full well --"

"I don't know a thing, John." Constantine stops, frustrated, and jerks on the black sleeve of his companion who spins in response, long blond braid flying out behind him under the hat. 

"You know enough." The small magician speaks intently. "You've done this before. Think." His eyes narrow, as if trying to bore his words directly into Constantine's brain, though his lopsided smile eases the tone. "I'm going to steal something, and you're going to help. I've offered a prize to make it worth your while. There will be a third person with skills that will make the whole thing easier. I might damage one of you in some way, depending on how things work out. Probably not you," he adds.

Then he shakes off Constantine's hand and turns up the street away from the river with a Dickensian "Bah!"

Constantine smiles as he follows the figure past a lighted apartment building and a dark warehouse. John looks like a large boy playing at noir detective in the oversized coat, except it's the wrong sort of hat. By the time he catches up, he is nearly whistling in his amusement. "You are dangerously sober."

*

"Yeah, well, two more blocks and then 'it's Miller Time.'"

"Cat's piss. Can't stand the stuff, myself. Give me a good brown ale, not your watered down American pilsners."

"I was speaking metaphorically," John growls. "I'll probably start with tequila. The sooner the better." He is speaking through a clenched jaw.

"You seem to have dropped your sense of humor somewhere. Shall we go back and look for it?"

The retort comes in a very flat Midwestern twang. "Sod you, pal."

Constantine laughs out loud, drawing a few glances from people nearby. He notices they are all dressed in black, and heading in the same direction. The leg wear, the boots and shoes he can see, all hint that intriguing clothing is hidden beneath the uniform of long black coats. He suddenly feels conspicuous and old in his khaki trench coat and tie. 

The club is in a low flat building with a short queue of Goths and pseudo Goths out front. John steps into line and pulls out his wallet. Constantine suddenly wonders whether he'll get past the doorman, and indeed he is stopped by a slab of beef in a Metallica shirt.

"Dress code. Black or costume."

"But I am in costume."

"As what? Someone's dad?"

The question angers Constantine, mostly because he probably is old enough to be the slab's father, but he doesn't lose his focus. A bit of glamour magic is in order. He takes out a cigarette, puts it in his mouth, then glances up at the door. He meets the eyes of a slender man in a gray suit staring back. Constantine returns to the bouncer, smiling and flicking open his lighter. "I'm in costume as John Constantine," he says, and dips the end of his cigarette into the flame. He projects outward the thought that he is six times cooler than anyone else on the block.

There is a moment when he isn't sure it's going to work, but it does, and with a glance toward the man at the door and a grunt, the slab removes itself. As Constantine steps past he takes a better look at the man in gray, but he is unremarkable. Their eyes meet for a moment.

The man smirks. "John Constantine. Good one. Enjoy yourself." 

Though he doesn't recognize him, Constantine isn't surprised his name is known or that his magic was recognized. He's been kicking around occult circles for more than twenty years. He nods and steps inside into the dark, musing momentarily on whether there's a difference between being himself, or pretending to be someone pretending to be him. The thought amuses.

The cover charge does not. He catches up to John, having handed over a twenty. "Whatever you're having, get me one, too. And you're buying."

John bares his teeth over his shoulder, but doesn't slow his direct path through the bar. Constantine barely has time to make out that they are surrounded by bodies and skin. The room is smoky, and loud techno blares to the right, but John leads him on into a room throbbing with industrial music. 

The room is crowded, and the dance floor full. On one of several platforms a slender, well-built young man is dancing shirtless, sinuously enough to rouse even Constantine's female-oriented libido. A woman leading a man on collar and leash passes in front of him, shifting his focus, and after she moves on and his eyes adjust to the dark he seeks out the black hat. John is turning from the bar holding two plastic cups of pale liquor, balancing a lime on either thumb.

Constantine takes the one proffered, grabbing the lime before it falls. They touch the edges of their cups together and down the shots. John gives an elaborate display of shuddering, but before it fades he has already turned back to the bar where another shot awaits. He downs that one without turning round, then picks up the beer that follows and rejoins his companion.

"Much better," he mouths over the noise.

"What are we looking for?" Constantine bends down to shout. "The Marquis?"

"I'm looking for anyone selling Ecstasy. You look for the Marquis." John slips past, and Constantine doesn't stop him, heading instead to the bar for his own beer.

He looks around for a place to lean and eventually stations himself against a wall where he can see the dance floor and one of the two doors that lead into this room. Sipping his too-cold beer he notices that the patrons are nearly uniformly light-skinned, and the figure that spoke to him on the Tube will likely stand out.

Constantine is patient. He has a beer; he has a spare pack of cigarettes; and he has no idea what is going to happen next.

*

To amuse himself he tries cataloguing noteworthy costumes, but quickly realizes that John was right. What isn't typical fashion bondage is either funny, or sad, or both. The only interest lies in ridicule, prurience or simple lechery - the occasional girl who might be worth chatting up if the music was less overwhelming. By the time he finishes his beer he's feeling old, and wondering whether he should make a circuit through the club. Maybe the Marquis prefers the techno room. 

He shifts his weight preparing to stand up from his lean when next to him a deep, West Indian accent slices through the music to make itself heard. "If you're off for another beer, get one for me."

Constantine turns. "S'trewth!" He is stunned to find himself looking at the black man from the Tube, and falls back against the wall. Dark eyes set off by strange purplish whites from the blacklights glint with triumph at Constantine's surprise.

"How the hell did you do that? I've been watching the doors."

"I didn't use any of _those_ doors." The smile is only a satisfied curl of lip, and the man gives the suggestion of a bow. "The Marquis de Carabas, at your service."

Constantine has already guessed, and though annoyed he applauds John's choice for their third. Even if there is a back door Constantine missed, very few people have been able to sneak up on him like that. This Marquis must be good. He doesn't offer a hand as he says, "John Constantine."

"Yes, I know. The Hellblazer. "

"What do you mean by Hellblazer?"

De Carabas' face is carefully neutral. "Your reputation precedes you."

Constantine, irritated, suspects he won't get any more than that, so he stands straight again and asks, "What'll you have?"

"Beer is fine. Whatever you were drinking."

"You'll be here when I get back. No more popping in or out of rabbit holes?"

The Marquis simply curls his lips again.

Constantine turns away, and to his surprise he sees John near the bar, chatting with a statuesque woman in an evening gown of shimmering PVC, towering over the little man on her very high shoes. She was one of the few people who had caught Constantine's eye, as much for her smile -- unusual in a place where gloom is _de rigeur_ \-- as for her beauty. He walks over to them and puts his hand on the small man's shoulder, matching her smile in what he hopes is a winning way. 

Her grin broadens as she looks him up and down. "You did Hellblazer," she says. "That is so good!"

John takes him by the elbow and turns him away before he can answer or ask. Constantine directs his question to John. "What is all this Hellblazer shite?"

He sees a glint in John's eye, a glint he doesn't like, as John answers, "She must've read a story about us. I forgot to mention that I shifted shadows on you. We're not in your world any more."

"What do you mean? The guy out front recognized my name. They took my cash."

"Different, but not too different." John shrugs. "Did you find the Marquis?"

"Yeah. I was just getting us both a beer." Constantine cocks his head back the way he came. "He's over there. What do you mean you shifted shadows?"

"There are shadows of the true world, and some of us can walk between them. I can. We did. Forget the beer. 'It's time to rock and roll.'"

The answer does not quite make sense, but Constantine drops it. If they're about to start whatever foray John has planned, there is a crucial question to be asked. "Did you find any Ecstasy?"

"Is the Pope Catholic? Does a bear shit in the woods? Am I a little demon, short and stout?"

"You're not stout," Constantine corrects automatically, but he doesn't let John's nonsense distract him. The follow-up question is equally important. "How much did you take?"

"Five," John answers in a manner that can only be described as merry. "Good stuff, too. No PCP, no acid, no THC."

"Oh, that's bloody brilliant." Constantine grabs the little man by the lapels of his trench coat, and pulls their faces as close as the broad leather brim of John's hat permits. "Now you listen to me," he growls. "If you decide in the next few hours to try to hug me and tell me what a great guy I am, I will feed you your stupid hat." 

"What if I just tell you now and get it over with?" John takes the lanky Englishman's face in both hands and leans in swiftly to kiss him, wet and loud, knocking off the hat. It falls to hang down between the black-clad shoulders from the chinstrap as he grins and shouts over the music, "You're a great guy!"

Constantine drops him and shoves, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Prat!"

*

John falls, laughing, and bumps into several patrons on the way down. The jostling and spilling of drinks draw protests directed at both men. Constantine tenses for confrontation, but John rights himself and regains his feet with aplomb and apology. "Lover's quarrel," is the campy explanation he gives, and though it annoys Constantine, it seems sufficient enough. 

John's hand slips around his elbow. "C'mon, darling."

With an irritated shrug, Constantine shakes off the small magician. "Just stop it."

"Oh, come on. The E's haven't even kicked in yet," John answers cajolingly.

"You best start talking before they do, so I know what we're supposed to be doing."

"Not to worry, Hellblazer. Not to worry."

"What is this 'Hellblazer' shite?" Constantine's annoyance increases.

"I told you, I shifted shadows." John conveys the nonchalant irritation of one who feels he is stating the obvious as he settles his hat back on his head. "In this shadow you're known as John Constantine, Hellblazer."

"You mean I might meet myself?" The thought is disconcerting and appealing, both.

John shakes his head dismissively. "Not likely. You're a character in a comic book. C'mon." 

Before Constantine can protest, John is off in the direction of the Marquis. He is easy to spot, but before they reach him, Constantine stops John with a hand on his shoulder. "Tell me about the Marquis. Does he have a comic book, too?"

John shakes his head. "He comes from a place called London Below."

"Below what?"

"Just Below. Abandoned sewers, old Tube lines. I put a little pressure on him and made it uncomfortable for him at home, since he resisted my first invitation." John smiles wryly. "He didn't think I was serious. C'mon."

When they reach the Marquis he raises his dark eyebrows in question. "Monsieur LeBlanc, I assume?"

John nods his head in confirmation as Constantine asks, "You hadn't met before?"

"No," says the Marquis. "He dealt only by messenger. I recognize you from the comic books." De Carabas gives Constantine a penetrating look. "Is half that stuff true?"

"Like what?"

"Like the whole bit about how you got the Devil to drink holy water?"

"Oh, that" Constantine is about to say yes, but interrupts himself and turns to John. "That story is in a comic book?"

John shrugs. "Sure. It's only been exaggerated a little bit. Can we go now?" He turns and heads toward the closest door.

The Marquis leans in to Constantine as they turn to follow. "Impressive."

Constantine imitates John's shrug and moves to catch up with the annoying little man.

They thread through the crowd, and Constantine has time to notice strange tableaux of people around him. It is as if he is moving and they are standing still. He catches a glimpse of a naked woman kneeling in a circle, light glinting off the chain that links her to a man dressed all in elegant black, another of a group of semi-naked men dancing and writhing mindlessly to throbbing music and strobe lighting. He dodges a middle-aged man in showgirl feathers, and suddenly they are at the door of the club where the music is only a dull vibration.

They emerge into a surprisingly quiet street. It is late enough for the traffic to have died down, but not so late that the clubs have closed their doors, forcing revelers onto the sidewalks. John leads them out into the middle of the street, produces an unlikely crowbar from under his coat and hands it to the Marquis. "Time to do your stuff."

The Marquis bends down and slips the end of the bar into a handy slot on a manhole cover that Constantine has just noticed. He pries up the edge and flips the disc of metal out of the way with a grace and efficiency that speak of long practice. "After you, sir." 

John smiles and shakes his head. "Constantine first."

"Not down a bloody sewer, I'm not."

"Yes," says John evenly, "you are."

"Why?"

"What reason do I need?"

Constantine concedes the point. "Where are we going?"

"'Where do you want to go today?'" John retorts.

"Cripes, but you never make sense!" Constantine is impatient, and he isn't interested in sloshing around in a sewer without a bloody good reason.

"More to the point, 'Where do you want to go, Toady?'" John's look belies the words and the cartoon tone. His eyes show a hint of flame that reminds Constantine that this is not just a small and obnoxious magician. This is a demon on drugs.

****

Round 2

Constantine can feel de Carabas' amusement, and he looks down the hole. There is a small ladder leading down into the dark. "You have a torch?"

"You don't want to see where you're going," the Marquis says evenly. "That's what I'm here for. Just go down until your feet hit level ground, then step left and wait for us."

"Left."

"Left. And don't turn or wander anywhere. Don't stop on the ladder, and double check your footing." The Marquis speaks seriously, but there is a hint in his voice that he cares little if Constantine gets it wrong.

"Anything else I ought to know about?" Constantine asks, marking the look on his companion's face. There is an intentness and impatience in the dark eyes. 

"Just that you should get your ass moving," John answers before the Marquis can. "And don't pay attention to the shoggoths."

"Shoggoths. Right." Constantine tries to pull the name from all that blasted Lovecraft stuff, but the word only conjures an image of slime and ooze appropriate for a sewer. He eases himself over the side and starts down the ladder.

The circle of light from the open manhole above disappears too quickly, and the ladder goes on for too long. How deep is he going? He can hear the noise of other feet on the rungs above him, but the eventual slide and clunk of the manhole cover seems to come from very far away.

"John?"

"Right above you, buddy." Then, "Hey, you almost kicked me in the head."

"Sorry, monsieur," de Carabas says unapologetically. "Something's coming our way. Move quickly."

"What's going on?" asks Constantine. He can hear something slithering above their heads.

"Something slimy this way comes," John answers. "Got any Shoggoth-B-Gone?"

"Just move," says the Marquis. 

The sound is closer, and it seems wet and large. Constantine can feel something like cold breath. When his feet hit solid ground, he remembers to step to the left. He can feel John next to him a half second later, and as the third body comes down, he can hear the wet noise of whatever chases them.

Another sound, one of rustling metal foil, comes from de Carabas, followed by a burble of complaint. A ghostly blue glow flares. It brings heat, but fails to spread any light, and there comes a loud squish of something falling. The wet cry rises to a brief and awful scream, and then falls to a whimper as the blue flame flickers out. There is a smell of burning dead fish.

Constantine feels himself nudged by John. "Where's your lighter?"

He pulls out his Zippo, and sparks it. In the weak illumination he can only see that John is holding out a torch, and not an electric one, toward the flame. As it catches and begins to spread light he can make out the dark form of the Marquis, and then the green and gray pile quivering at de Carabas' black boots. A black sear of charred flesh is half-visible. It is a big as large dog and covered with slime, if the way it glistens in the torchlight is any indication.

"Shoggoth?" asks Constantine.

"I suppose so," the Marquis answers, crumpling the foil packet in his hand and dropping it on the corpse.

"What did you get it with?"

"Napalm." 

*

"Really?" Constantine says with surprise and respect.

"No." de Carabas grins, and Constantine knows there are secrets a man needs to keep. He doesn't ask.

John nudges the sodden form with a toe, and then sings badly, loudly, in a tune from the Viet Nam war: "Napalm sticks to shoggoths!"

Constantine elbows him to be quiet and looks around. The end of the ladder looks old, and the walls of the tunnel seem like nothing he might expect of a storm drain. There is no water at the bottom of the rough path, and the walls are carved in patches with runes and signs that look halfway familiar in the moving torchlight.

"Where are we?" Constantine asks. 

"Below," the Marquis answers.

"Below what?"

"Below."

For the first time in their brief acquaintance, the occultist can see a tension beneath the smooth, remote surface the Marquis presents. He reminds him of a cat, appearing to be relaxed, but coiled to spring at any moment. 

John, however, is energized and bounces on his toes. He exaggerates each word as if he is stupid as he asks, "'Which way do we go? Which way do we go?'"

Constantine wonders idly what cartoon or movie John is quoting from, but is pleased the question has been asked. 

The Marquis gestures broadly indicating a direction, his face impassive. He lets John take the lead, and brings up the rear himself. 

"So this is what's under Cambridge?" Constantine asks. "Does it connect with Boston, or is it just on this side of the river?"

"You don't want to know," the Marquis answers firmly.

Constantine appears to accept the response, and asks instead, "Do I want to know why you like people to owe you favors?"

"No."

"Do you want me to owe you a favor?"

"You already owe me a favor," he answers testily, "so do me the favor of being quiet."

Constantine smiles to himself, childishly pleased at getting under the Marquis' skin. It relieves a bit of the jumpiness he feels. 

"How much farther?" John asks suddenly, his voice echoing flatly.

"Not far," the Marquis says. "Take the next right. Wait, no, the one after."

The torch ahead disappears into the side opening, and Constantine and de Carabas follow. Within a few minutes of walking it begins to slope upward, and a moment later there is a rumble from above and around them, growing louder.

Constantine looks back at the Marquis, and asks, "Trains? We're under the Tube?"

"They call it the T here," John calls back.

"Whatever." Constantine wants to be out of here. The tunnel around them begins to have a more modern look, and when he glances over his shoulder, Constantine sees the Marquis is amused.

"What?"

"I expect only students or security will give us trouble now. You all right?" he asks Constantine in mock solicitousness.

"Fine. Why wouldn't I be all right?"

"I just thought, with the shoggoth and all..."

Constantine's answer is a fierce sneer. "That was nothing, and I wasn't at all worried. I've seen worse."

"That so?" de Carabas asks, allowing a touch of disbelief into his voice.

From the front John calls back, "You two stop it." They look, and he is standing holding the torch aloft with the other hand on his hip. "Please don't even start those one-upmanship games. Why can't we just work together?" he adds plaintively

Constantine leans toward de Carabas. "I think the E's are kicking in," he says softly.

"He's on Ecstasy?" The dark eyes narrow in calculation.

"Five," Constantine affirms. "Do you know where we're going and what we're supposed to do when we get there?" 

"Hmm. Yes."

"Care to fill me in?"

"No whispering!" John now sounds like a child. "We should be sharing."

Constantine looks over at John, whose lips are parted in what could be the beginnings of either a snarl or a grin. Even at this distance there are too many teeth. "Well, at least he isn't asking for a group hug," he mutters at the Marquis. "Perhaps we should get moving." To John he calls, "'Are we there yet, Daddy?'"

John laughs, deepening the impression of too-wide a mouth. "That's my schtick. I quote. You do the 'mysterious bloke you might share a pint with' thing. Now let's get cracking."

"Bloody hell," de Carabas mutters, picking up the pace. "Isn't there something different about him?

"Yes," Constantine answers. "Must be the drugs." If the Marquis doesn't know what John is, Constantine isn't going to tell him. 

*

When they catch up to John, Constantine notices he's filled out the oversized coat somewhat. He wonders whether the Marquis has seen the beginnings of green scales down the back of John's neck under the braid. The voice, though, is still John's tenor.

"Up, up, up!"

There is another ladder, this one more modern. Constantine takes the lead with the Marquis behind him, John following last with the torch. When he reaches the manhole cover he tries to lift it carefully, but cannot move it. "Bloody hell." 

"What's wrong?"

"Can't get the cover off."

"Traffic light must be red," the Marquis answers from directly below Constantine's worn shoes.

"What do you mean?"

"We're under a main road. Main Street, in fact."

Constantine sighs loudly to avoid swearing. "I suppose traffic timing is everything to getting out of here?"

From below them John's voice comes singing, "Go play in traffic! Go take candy from a stranger - Ow!" The tunnel fades into near-complete darkness as the torch falls. "Why'd you have to kick me? Don't you like me?"

"I'm hopelessly in love with you," answers de Carabas in a voice of honeyed sarcasm. "It's your singing I can't stand."

John's retort, if there is one, is lost in the loud k'chunk of the manhole cover. There are several more of the noises, which come in rhythmic pairs, and Constantine realizes it must be cars driving over.

When there are a few seconds of quiet, the Marquis says, "Now!"

The metal disc is heavy, but raises with no serious difficulty. Constantine is facing sideways and looks both ways up the street, remembering he is in the States and they drive on the wrong bloody side of the road. There are cars stopped at a light a block away, but the coast is clear. He shoves the cover aside and pulls himself out into the broad street. 

It is cold. Very cold. In fact there are the dark crumbled heaps of dirty city snow against the curbs a few feet away. Even the Marquis is surprised. "Temple and Arch! It's winter."

John's head emerges, and Constantine watches as he climbs out, trying to see whether he has changed further. He is distracted enough by the weather and his concerns about John that he fails to remember they're in the middle of a road. He startles as a car squeals and veers around them, then another. John kicks the cover of the manhole back into place as if it were as light as plastic. They repair to the sidewalk and regroup.

John's only comment on the weather is to sigh sorrowfully. "Too bad we missed the snowfall. That would have been pretty."

Constantine has stopped trying to force any sense of order on the evening. There is a smell of candy in the air, strongly suggesting root beer, as he looks around at the industrial buildings lining the broad street. He accepts the winter and asks, "Now what?" 

The Marquis answers, "Now you, with your vaunted breaking and entering skills, get us in there." He points down a side street. Large letters indicate that this is the MIT Museum, but the building is industrial and unremarkable. "I don't understand why we've been through tunnels Below only to break in at the front door under a street lamp."

Constantine looks at him over the flame of his Zippo as he lights a cigarette. "Why didn't you, with your vaunted knowledge of getting around Below --" Constantine feels himself involuntarily capitalizing the word " -- take us right into the building?"

"Hackers," answers John, a rough edge creeping into his voice.

"What have computer geeks to do with this?" Constantine looks closely, and realizes that John has nearly filled out his coat.

"Building hackers," comes the clarification. "There's a long tradition of finding one's way around campus using only tunnels and ventilation shafts."

"Which sound bloody more convenient that trying to break in the front door."

"We'd be seen. You two would be recognized," says John shortly. "Besides, there's better security for those back entrances than the front. They don't expect anyone to break in the front."

Constantine exhales a great stream of smoke before answering. "If you'd have told me where we were going, I'd have come and had a look round. No guarantees when I'm working blind."

"Aren't you supposed to be one of the best?" the Marquis asks. "I read somewhere there was only one place you haven't managed to get into given three weeks."

"I haven't got bloody three weeks." Constantine wonders where the hell the Marquis read that tidbit. He looks over at John and notices the glint of fire behind the eyes, and a slight elongation of the face. With conscious irony he asks, "How long have I got?"

"Before I can't help you?" John smiles and the teeth are clearly pointed, the mouth too wide.

*

"Bloody fucking hell," Constantine swears, blowing smoke sideways and glancing at the Marquis.

The Marquis catches Constantine's glance and raises his eyebrows in question.

Constantine gives him no satisfaction. He loosens his already loose tie, and takes the butt of the cigarette between his teeth. With a wry grin, a grin meant to say that he's in control, he turns his attention entirely to the door.

It is ludicrously easy.

The standard institutional deadbolt will be simple to slip. The only thing he doesn't know is whether there is any electronic surveillance, whether there are alarms he can't see from this side. He decides to assume they exist. He knows how to deal with them. There are no cameras he can see.

"You two loiter inconspicuously, and let me get to work."

John leans against the wall of the building, but de Carabas bends down. "Have you seen what's happening to him?" he asks softly.

"Yes." Constantine answers without looking up.

"Teeth like that can never mean anything good."

Constantine smiles, but his attention is all on the lock. "All right, love, let's see how you're wired," he whispers. Then a moment later in a louder voice: "We're in."

John nearly plunges through the open door, which Constantine holds wide with the flourish of the poshest London doorman. De Carabas follows more sedately, but with no expression. 

There is a short flight of stairs. There is another door. There is another wait.

Constantine can tell that this door is more seriously wired, and the work takes longer. He can hear John shuffling in impatience, and when Constantine glances back at the sound of soft singing, he is actually dancing. He is also more than half changed. He is now the demon entire, green-scaled and lion-faced, eyes glowing, and the yellow braid falling down his broad back.

"John?" he asks looking up from his work.

"Hmm? Are you ready for me to tell you you're a great guy?" he asks in a voice that could scour metal. He points at Constantine with a finger that ends in a long curve of black nail.

"No, I'm wondering whether you've any idea what you're going to do once we get in here."

"Certainly. You get the Necronomicon from the Hall of Hacks, and I get... Safe. Place. To. Dream." He rocks back and forth with each word, and the harsh voice manages to imply reverie.

"You're planning to spend out your little Ecstasy trip in a museum?"

"Is the Pope --" John starts, then interrupts himself with a chuckle. He begins singing in a voice like buzzsaws. "I'm a little demon short and stout." He raises one finger then touches his nose as he sings, "Here is my talon, here is my snout!"

Constantine glances up at de Carabas, who is staring in stark fascination.

The song ends unfinished, and John laughs in tones that are more nails on the blackboard than human amusement.

Constantine knows he is likely to be safe even if John's mood turns violent. He wonders idly what sort of protection the Marquis has. It isn't his problem, and he returns to the problem of locks and wires, finishes solving it, and opens the door into the museum proper.

Inside the museum the tone is still utilitarian. In the dim emergency lighting they can see an information desk, a museum shop, and a hall of painted concrete. John leads them a short way down the hall, then veers into a dark room to the right. For a moment there is only the dull glow from what should be John's eyes, but his back is to them. It is difficult to make out any shapes in the dark, but when John turns on a flashlight they can see black glass windows set into the wall of the room, and two pedestals topped with what look like empty glass boxes.

"What kind of museum is this?" Constantine asks. 

"The Museum of Holography. Check this out." He shines the torch on one of the glass boxes. "What do you see?"

Constantine and de Carabas answer from different sides of him.

"A skull."

"A monkey face."

John shows all his teeth. "Switch places."

The Marquis watches the box as he walks behind John. The face he sees turns into a skull. "Interesting. Whatever will they think of next?" he asks dryly. It is bigger than a child's toy, but not much different in his view from those cards you can flip to see two images. Except that it's three dimensional, he admits to himself.

"This is an old one. Wait till you see what happened when artists started doing this." John enthuses.

He bounds into the next room, where there are framed pieces of glass that shimmer with colors as the torch waves wildly over them. John slows down and plays the light over the hanging pieces more slowly until he stops at one. It is an image in green and red, managing to convey that there is a place of safety amid the indication of frenetic movement.

"That one!" the demon creaks happily. "That's Safe Place to Dream."

"It's a bloody piece of art?" Constantine asks, incredulous. 

"A hologram. Fetch it for me, please, Mr. Constantine. The Marquis will keep watch."

"The Marquis has better things to do," says de Carabas.

"Like what?"

"This." 

The room floods with light, and Constantine looks for guards, adrenaline rising. He sees only the Marquis in his voluminous black coat, the lace at his cuff flopping raggedly as he points at the light switch. 

"And light brings knowledge," the Marquis continues, striding through the hall. 

Constantine follows de Carabas' path with his eyes. It leads to a convenient step-ladder. Too easy. With the edge of adrenaline comes a preference for a challenge. They bring it under the hologram where hangs in line with several others, suspended from the ceiling by thick wires. The wire snips in Constantine's pocket are put to use, and the two men lower the heavy frame together and lean it against the wall.

John is sitting on the floor, staring at another of the hanging holograms. Constantine decides one is enough and wonders how to distract the demon before he decides to collect the entire set. "Get up."

"Mmm?"

"Get up!"

John answers softly, "'Up, up, and away!'" He lies back dreamily.

"We've got it. We're done." Constantine fights the urge to kick the creature, but it would not be wise. Claws have broken through the toes of John's black boots. Constantine looks with disgust at the tripping demon. "Where did you say I'd find the Necronomicon?"

"The Hall of Hacks, back out the way we came in, and to the right," John grates, rising abruptly and shaking off the reverie. He tucks the hologram under his arm as if it weighs little, and turns to the Marquis. "Let him get his silly book. There's something I want to show you."

Constantine picks up the flashlight and follows John's directions, which lead him past a wall display of calculating machines. They start with the abacus and end with the kind of Texas Instruments calculator that Constantine coveted from the richer kids in fifth form maths. There is something annoying about finding it displayed as an antique.

His bemusement does not prepare him for the next room, where the light from his torch lands on a police car. 

*

It doesn't take long to realize the thing is a mock up; the blank facelessness under the hat of the copper inside gives it away. He uses the flashlight to find a light switch. The overhead fluorescents show him several displays arrayed around the room. He returns to the central display and finds an accompanying plaque showing a newspaper article with a photograph of the police car, its strobes flashing on the top of MIT's main dome. The Hall of Hacks, it turns out, is entirely devoted to difficult practical jokes. 

He can imagine what it must have been like to see it from the distance on top of a large dome many stories high. It must have taken a lot of effort to get it there, yet the pranksters included not only working lights, but also the details of empty coffee cups and a donut box on the front seat. 

Constantine glances at the other displays, suspecting their full impact might be lost on him, looking for the Necronomicon. Its presence in this section of the museum gives some indication that the authenticity of this version is no better than any other. He finds it in a corner, covered in a thin layer of dust, displayed on an ornate reading stand. The cover is leather, old looking, and the book is tied closed by a wide ragged strap of cow hide. He looks at the description, which takes up a poster bigger than the large book, and reads with increasing fascination.

"This display is the small physical reminder of what may have been perhaps the most long-range, complicated hack in MIT history. It might have gone unnoticed but for the notability of its perpetrator, who earned himself the nickname The Mad Arab.

"As a freshman in the 1982, Abdul Alhazred repeatedly pointed out that his name bore no connection to that of the Dubai royal family, thus fueling mild speculation that he was indeed related to the Middle Eastern ruling class. Although he lived much like a normal freshman, he often produced as gifts objects which were mildly difficult to find and expensive to purchase. As an example: A classmate once wondered what could be done with a dozen Electronic Music Units ganged together if one also had several tape-loop devices and a sequencer. Several days later, Mr. Alhazred surprised him by leading him to a studio with a dozen EMUs, four tape loops, and an Oberhiem sequencer still in the prototype phase. The rent on the studio was pre-paid for the three years remaining till the young man's graduation date. 

"Mr. Alhazred was in course 6-1 (electrical engineering), but also took classes in 6-3 (computer science). By the middle of his sophomore year, he had begun to act a bit strange. At first his night prowling seemed no different from many other students who engage in building hacking, but even the regular hackers were stunned by his exploits. He had begun to leave what can best be described as large fetish altars consisting of defunct computer hardware and broken laboratory glass in some of the hardest-to-reach places on campus.

"By his junior year he had ceased his habit of bestowing presents, and the hidden altars became so elaborate that his friends accused him of secretly attending Massachusetts College of Art. He took to wearing a Mass Art sweatshirt with Course 6's Six Hertz T-shirt design professionally printed on the back. Over the year the shirt acquired small pieces of electronics -- chips, resistors, and the like -- that seemed woven into the fabric. At this point Mr. Alhazred also ceased to cut his hair or shave.

"During his senior year he was rarely seen except at exams, late at night on the rooftops, or rebuilding the altars which the maintenance crew would sometimes remove. His grades were remarkably high, despite the fact that he never appeared to attend class. His neighbors in Random Hall found conversation with him difficult, as he would often drop references to the pulp horror stories of H. P. Lovecraft as if they were legitimate histories. He claimed to be the great-grandson and namesake of Lovecraft's invented author of the Necronomicon. Glimpses into his room showed a reading stand with a large, ancient-looking book written in Arabic. Mr. Alhazred could be seen sometimes through the window of his room gesturing strangely while reading from the book. This made people nervous, and only added credence to the tales of the Mad Arab, which were known all over the school.

"In 1986 Mr. Alhazred earned degrees in both Course 6-1 and 6-3, but was not seen at graduation. No one saw him move out of his dormitory room, and after several weeks of consideration campus staff broke down the door of the room, which had acquired elaborate locks. It was empty except for the reading stand, and book on display here, a wig, and a false beard. Arabic speakers examined the book and discovered it contained the entire set of notes for all the undergraduate electrical engineering and computer science courses, and even the demonic-looking diagrams were in fact baroquely decorated circuit diagrams and equations.

"As much as anyone can piece together, Abdul Alhazred did attend classes, but without the hair and beard he went unrecognized. The Necronomicon you see here was merely his transcribed and illuminated class notes. The purpose of the charade remains unclear, but classmates have commented that recent photographs of a certain Dubai prince bear a great similarity to the clean-shaven classmate whose name they never quite caught."

Constantine comes to the end of the text, looks back at the book, then up at the poster again. There it sits, the Necronomicon, hand written in Arabic by Abdul Alhazred, the Mad Arab himself. He doesn't know whether to laugh or kick something, but eventually the laugh overtakes him, and he needs to lean on the wall for support until the last chuckles die away.

There is a long moment when he debates taking the thing, but decides in the end to leave it. He opens the book and leafs through a few pages. The Arabic is beyond him, and he assumes the unfathomable figures are circuit diagrams and higher math functions. If nothing else, he can now honestly claim to have seen it, and to have decided that it had mysteries too deep for one such as him. He never had done well in algebra.

****

Round 3

He turns off the light and retraces his steps. The holography rooms are empty, but there is light through an archway further on. He moves through the opening and finds himself in a room filled with delicate and strange machines. None of them have a clear purpose, but as he wanders around he sees one that makes him laugh. It is a bird's wishbone harnessed to a fine metal chariot, and when Constantine steps on an indicated floor switch, an electric motor turns on and the wishbone begins to walk, dragging the chariot behind. Somehow the bone and wire convey a dogged weariness.

He wants to look at the rest of the sculptures, but a groan catches his attention. He follows the sound to a room furnished as a dining room, with a mahogany table and chairs, a buffet where the hologram leans, and paintings on the walls. Slumped in one of the chairs is the Marquis de Carabas, bleeding and nearly unconscious.

Standing beside him, John pulls up the Marquis' head to reveal several thin lines of red running in parallel down the dark neck. The worst sight is the gaping hole in de Carabas' chest. Constantine can see the beating of the heart under exposed ribs. The glowing eyes of the demon look up as Constantine enters the room. The words, "What the hell?" fade from the magician's lips. 

Constantine stops, leans against the wall, and says in a very calm voice, "I guess this is the part where you're trying to kill the Marquis?"

The answer comes from an unexpected quarter. It is a light voice, feminine and practical. "I guess trying is the operative word."

Constantine's eyes follow the voice to its source. Sitting in one of the other chairs leaning on the table with her head propped up on her hands is a Goth girl. At first Constantine thinks he recognizes her from the club, but she looks too young. A large ankh hangs down between her small breasts, and vaguely Egyptian designs are traced in swirls at the corners of her eyes. 

No, he did not see her in the club. She is familiar because he's known her all his life. She is Death.

"You have my attention," she says, raising her eyebrows in question. "What do you want?"

"So it's true," John breathes creakily.

"What, that he keeps his life hidden somewhere else?" She nods toward the Marquis. "Yes, that's true. It's a box, a universe or two away. Shadows, I think you call them."

"'Rose is rose is rose,'" quotes the demon. "I counted on his life being somewhere else, so that you would come."

"And I'm here, and I haven't heard yet what you want."

Death is sitting here in this museum reproduction of someone's dining room and becoming impatient. Constantine cannot analyze his reactions, so doesn't bother. He likes her instantly -- suspects most people do -- and is quite pleased to meet her under circumstances that do not involve his own demise.

The Marquis may not be so lucky. John lets go of the short nap of the hair on top, and the dreadlocks fall forward as de Carabas' head lolls down unconsciously. The demon moves toward Death's chair, and she rises. They are nearly the same height, but her slight, pale form is only half the size. John reaches into a breast pocket of his trench coat and pulls out a roll of something not parchment, but skin.

Constantine has seen this before. It is the list from a scavenger hunt. John unrolls it carefully with taloned fingers and turns it toward her, pointing at one line. It is several spaces down from the one that got crossed off last spring, marked with ink made from Constantine's blood. 

She looks at the list and the indicated line, laughs, and shakes her head. "Only if you fix him up and send him home. This wasn't very fair to him."

John shrugs unapologetically. "It's good practice for him, even if he won't remember." Then, as earnestly as one can sound with a voice like bending steel: "Please?"

"Promise to repair the damage you've done to the Marquis?"

"Scout's honor."

"All right." Death sighs and shakes her head again, as if amused and filing the story for later re-telling. But whom, Constantine wonders, would she have to tell?

As he muses, she takes the list and holds it to her lips for a moment. John takes it back and looks. He grins happily with his too-many teeth, rolls up the parchment, and tucks it back into his coat.

And she is gone, with a little wave at Constantine and a very knowing smile. 

He muses for a moment before he looks at the demon. "You're a nut case. You make my friends look normal."

"I yam what I sweet potato," John mutters back at him, beginning to search the Marquis' pockets. He lays out his findings on the table -- unmarked packets, chains, playing cards, money, a hand-drawn map of some sort, a pristine pack of cigarettes. "Ah-hah!"

He extracts a medium-sized package from a place deep inside the Marquis's voluminous coat, then randomly returns the stuff on the table to the pockets. Constantine notices sigils on the package's brown paper wrapping, and an ornate wax seal. They are as vaguely familiar as any occult symbols but do not call anything specific to mind. 

"What's that?"

"A little talisman I made for the Marquis, so that he could travel here. Good thing he didn't open it."

"Why is that?"

"Observe."

Constantine watches as John picks up the book, kisses the dark cheek on the lolling head of the Marquis de Carabas and breaks the wax seal with one sharp, black talon.

*

The brown paper falls away to reveal an ordinary-looking paperback book. John flips the pages swiftly under his fingers, then mutters something barely audible in a language Constantine does not know. He pulls de Carabas' head up again by the dreadlocks, and Constantine finds his eyes drawn to the rhythm of the visible heart. He barely registers that John has placed the book open on top of the Marquis' incognizant head.

Almost instantly, the body thins, both in volume and in texture. For a brief moment, Constantine can see through its bloody chest to the chair, then the entire misty form of the Marquis de Carabas disappears into the open book. It falls, bouncing off the cushioned seat, and there is a muted clunking sound of it hitting the floor. John bends over to pick up the book, then slides it across the table to Constantine.

"A little bedtime reading."

The cover is green, and Constantine picks it up to see the title, but it is not familiar. Neverwhere, by Neil Gaiman. When he flips the book open he finds an unmarked card with a magnetic stripe.

"Your bed. The Royal Sonesta, room three thirty-three."

It is a number no occultist can fail to appreciate, and the grin, made more evil for sitting in a green, leonine face and being made of pointed teeth, tells Constantine this is another deliberate poke from the Chaos demon.

"Half the number of the Beast?"

The broad shoulders shrug. "If you like."

They stare at each other for a long moment across the table. Then John gestures briefly and the overhead lights go out. The only illumination is the fire behind the demon's eyes, which have narrowed into thin slits. 

"Now," comes the grating voice, "either you get out of here and go to bed, or we play hide and seek."

Threats from showy little wankers never sit well with Constantine, who deliberately takes out a cigarette and lights it. "Goodnight, then." He walks slowly out of the room, listening carefully for any sound of movement. Halfway through the holography rooms he hears singing like hammer and tongs behind him, completing the melody left unfinished outside the museum door.

"When I get all E'ed up, hear me shout: Just cut me open and fire pours out!"

Constantine shakes his head, and continues on toward the exit. He lets himself out the front doors, not bothering to re-lock them, and steps back out into what is still winter. It has started to snow, and he shivers as he goes in search of a taxi.

The cab ride is short. The desk clerk glances up as Constantine walks by. The hotel is relatively posh, and though the room is large, it lacks a mini-bar. Constantine curses the inconvenience and puts himself to bed, far more sober than he cares to be.

He props himself on the pillows, opens the book and begins to read. He has to close it shortly after the character of the Marquis de Carabas appears. John said that in this shadow Constantine himself was a fictional character. He hates the idea that he could be sucked similarly into the brightly colored panels of a comic, remembering nothing, his every action scripted. He resolves to himself that he will get back where he belongs, John or no John, and in the meantime he'll avoid anyone who looks as if he'd recognize him from a comic book. 

Character. He's been called worse. Before he drops off to sleep, he wonders whether anyone could actually make up the kind of shite that happens to him. Take tonight for example.

*

The awakening knock at the door takes several minutes to work its way through a dream of cycling seasons. Constantine wakes, then looks for his pants and his cigarettes. Through the fisheye in the door he can see John. He looks human under his hat, and has a laden cart next to him. Constantine opens the door and stands aside.

John pushes the cart inside, and to Constantine's eye he looks like hell. There are deep shadows under the flat gray eyes, and his freshly-shaven cheek seems the green of a monstrous hangover.

"Room Service," John mumbles, setting aside his hat and pulling off his coat. He raises the covers off the plates. One contains eggs and sausages with toast, and the other is laden with fresh fruit. Two carafes, two cups, and several packets of tea complete the arrangement. John picks up a carafe and pours coffee into one of the cups. "Hot water," he says, pointing at the other. "Have some tea."

Constantine puts on his shirt and settles himself in for breakfast, looking at John. Between sips of coffee the small man eats fruit with his fingers, and Constantine thinks to himself that a fork would be dangerous in those shaking hands. The purple stain of blueberries marks John's fingers where he has squeezed too hard. 

"Five little doses of Ecstasy, and you're paying, aren't you."

A disgruntled look is all the answer he gets.

They eat in silence. John refills his coffee several times, and by the end of the meal seems to have recovered some of his usual demeanor and sits picking his teeth with a curved fingernail. 

As Constantine swallows his last bite he asks, "So why all the shifting of shadows?"

John wipes his hand on a napkin, removing none of the blueberry stain, and smiles a little. "It was like those puzzles with the small boat and the fox and the chicken and the sack of grain, and you have to get them all across, but you can't leave the fox with the chicken or the chicken with the grain. I had to get you both out of your respective shadows."

"And into a shadow where you could dispose of the Marquis easily," Constantine finishes, lighting a cigarette.

"There was that. But, well, there were a lot of details." He waves his hand dismissively. "I needed the Marquis because he kept his life somewhere else. It's a fairly standard plot device." 

"Bait," Constantine snorts. "So why me? I was completely unnecessary."

John shrugs. "I like you. You amuse me. I was returning the favor." 

Constantine glares, angry and amused at the same time. "Don't do me any more favors."

John flicks an eyebrow dismissively. "Did you like the book?"

Constantine doesn't want to talk about it. The thought reminds him uncomfortably that somewhere in this shadow is a comic book called Hellblazer. Part of him thinks it is funny, and he has revised his opinion of the night before. Now he believes the only explanation for his life might be a bunch of writers who occasionally sit around the pub getting pissed and wondering just what else they can come up with. 

He answers John's question about the book, "Just barely started it. Guess I'll finish it on the flight back. I assume I have a flight back?"

"Of course you do, but you'd best let me walk you to the subway." John's smile is both hesitant and sly.

"A few shadows to shift?"

"Yep. You want to leave now?"

Constantine wants a shave, but he doesn't trust John's apparent mellow mood. Best to take the gift horse in hand, as it were. He answers by dressing and gathering his things.

They walk to the subway without speaking, other than John's warning not to look around too much. The sun glitters on fresh snow as they set out. For many blocks John concentrates as he leads them through side rows lined with houses and flats and small corner shops. Eventually Constantine realizes there is no more snow. He ventures a glance up, and a few leaves now cling to the branches above them. By the time they rejoin a main road, the trees are painted with the colors of autumn.

At last they reach the entrance to the tube, or whatever they call it here. It's marked by a T. Constantine checks his pocket, and finds a ticket back to Heathrow. There is even the solid rectangle of a very real-looking passport and the slug of a subway token. 

They stand for a moment. John looks at the ground, his face hidden by the broad brim of the hat, once again a boy playing dress-up in the oversized coat. Constantine follows his gaze down, and sees that there are holes in the toes of John's boots. Of course. 

The reminder of last night suddenly irritates Constantine. He came all this way and he has nothing to show for it but a paperback novel. He takes a cue from the Marquis de Carabas, borrowing from the pages of Neverwhere. "You realize you owe me a favor for this. One with the words 'really' and 'big' in front of it."

John looks up and smiles wearily. "The Necronomicon made you laugh, though, didn't it? Besides, I got what I wanted, so maybe I do owe you one."

"The item for your scavenger hunt," the tall occultist begins. "Shall I guess what it was?"

John only smiles, his eyes narrowed. "It should be bloody obvious," he says with his American accent.

Constantine starts down the stairs for the train. Halfway there he turns to look back.

John is watching him amiably, and Constantine smirks up at him. "You needed the Kiss of Death."

John bows. "Score one for the Hellblazer."

Shaking off the name, Constantine continues down the stairs, finds his token, and lets himself through the turnstile. He stands for a moment, then walks to the end of the platform. A sudden urge presses on him to jump down, to walk the tracks into the darkness of the tunnel, and to see what lies Below. He wonders momentarily if there is a Below in this shadow, then snorts at himself for thinking like his companions of last night. He doesn't shift shadows, whatever that means, and he doesn't go Below, wherever that is. 

He turns deliberately away, lights a cigarette and endures the disapproving stares of the other waiting passengers. He grins back at them, thinking that if an inappropriate smoke is such a shock there is no way they could handle the things he deals with week in and week out. He feels his grin turn into a smirk as the stares turn away. He makes them uncomfortable. 

He doesn't mind at all.

**Author's Note:**

> John's quotes are from: Columbine High School gunmen Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, J. Michael Straczynski (Babylon 5), William Borroughs, the title of a series in Heavy Metal Magazine, Neil Gaiman ("Shoggoth's Old Peculiar" in Smoke and Mirrors), a beer commercial,Xander Harris (in Buffy the Vampire Slayer), The Microsoft advertising slogan, a takeoff thereon, paraphrase of a VietNam-era marching song, a cartoon dog from Bugs Bunny, Superman, and Gertrude Stein.
> 
> The MIT Museum was much as I describe, including the police car from off the dome (but not the Mad Arab hack), but it has been remodeled, and the Hall of Hacks is no longer there. I suspect security is also much tighter than our heroes encountered. Safe Place to Dream really is a work in the MIT holography collection by Melissa Crenshaw. You can see a version of it [here](http://www.globalimages-hologramartcollection.com/#!%E2%80%9Dsafe-place-to-dream%E2%80%9D/zoom/cyuu/i2ozc).
> 
> Death of the Endless appears in many places in the DC universe, but mostly in issues of The Sandman. 
> 
> I owe: Slash and Burn for critical comments, particularly whitecrow, Maz, and Olivia. 
> 
> For Ibn Ali


End file.
